Dashing
by katydidit
Summary: He could always blame it on Florence Nightingale syndrome.


AN: Inspired by and written for some of my friends. Vive le Munch!

I don't remember doing it. I remember wanting to do it, but I know he could take me out in a second, so I restrain myself every time the urge hits. Fantasizing about doing it usually satisfies me until he shuts up and leaves everyone alone. But suddenly he's on the ground staring up at me with equal parts rage and awe, and my hand hurts, and there's no one else around, so I know I must have done it.

And that's all the reflection I have time for, because the next thing I know, he's on his feet again and his fists are flying at my face. My glasses go flying, and I'm struck with the irony of the situation. I'm decades older, stronger, more coordinated, and a cop, for crying out loud, and I'm still getting beat up by a bully.

Of course, that's not the only thing that's striking me, a fact of which I'm reminded when I feel the blood pouring from my nose. He's going to kill me, I think faintly, too shocked to find my strength to wrestle him off. He's going to kill me because I sucker-punched him.

But suddenly he stops, and I feel him being dragged off of me. He's still swinging and panting, and I hear his fist connect solidly with someone else. The pain keeps my eyes closed, so I can't be sure who he's just hit. But judging from the grunt he's elicited, it hurt. And it must have shocked him, because I no longer hear the air whistling around his arms.

"I'm…sorry…" he begins, but I hear her cut him off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she growls, and I hear her smack him. The sound is muffled by clothing, so I know it wasn't on his face. His chest, maybe. "What the fuck is your problem!"

"He…punched me first," he replies, and though there's still a good amount of anger in his voice, it is quickly being drained away by his sheepishness.

"So you attack him? What are we, ten?" She ignores any sign of remorse he's giving her I almost feel disgraced, here on the floor, so I have to pipe up.

"C'mon, Liv…" I say, groping around for my glasses. "I had him right where I wanted him."

She ignores me.

"Stabler, you need to suck it the fuck up. I'm trying to be understanding here, because I know you loved Kathy and the kids and you're pissed off that they're gone. But you need to grow up already. We're all dealing with shit, whether you're willing to believe it or not, and I'm getting pretty damn tired of tiptoeing around the goddamn station just because you're hurting." She's breathing heavier now, and her words are getting louder. You go, Liv. Ride that adrenaline wave. "But you do not let off that anger here. Not on me and sure as hell not on John!" I hear another smack, probably also on his chest. If you're trying to knock some sense into him, it's not going to work, I think wryly as I finally pull myself into a sitting position. He storms off, and she bends down to help me up.

"Thanks," I mumble. Screw the male machismo and all that bullshit about not letting women fight your battles for you.

"No problem." She cringes as she examines my face. "He did not help your looks any," she teases as she goes for a first aid kit. I shrug, looking at my reflection in a window.

"I don't know… Don't you think a few bruises'll make me look more dashing?"

I hear her laugh as she returns and places her hand on my shoulder to turn me around. "You're dashing enough as it is." I grin at her while she dabs as my face with bits of cotton or gauze or whatever it is she's got in her hand, and she shakes her head with another of her smiles. "Detective John Munch, what has gotten into you? You actually hit the station's resident time bomb? That takes serious balls."

I forget for a moment why she's standing so close and waggle my eyebrows at her suggestively. Almost immediately, I wince and let my face go slack again. Right. The shooting pains in my face: those are because I just got beat up by an ex-Marine. Motion is probably not a good idea. She smoothes a few bandages over the more persistent bleeders, then steps away and presses a bag of salvation to my eye. First I cringe at the sudden cold, but when I realize what it is, I take it gratefully.

"Hopefully that'll keep the swelling down," she says, tossing the garbage into the trash can. "But you're still going to have some serious shiners. But hey—maybe we'll get lucky and they'll remind Elliot to calm down or something." She snorts, as though even she doesn't believe that, and fixes my collar.

"Well, Detective Benson, since you've saved my life, can I take you out to dinner tonight?"

I can always attribute it to Florence Nightingale syndrome.


End file.
